The Fear

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The Fear


That the time comes and I’m ready, 

walk tall to the table with a cocked-back

hook and clock him mid-sip of milk


right in the jaw, am escorted out 

in the firm grip of the principal 

to little or no cafeteria applause 


as I make my way to dine 

on the sumptuous feast reserved

for the principled, that exclusive 


back room to which I have punched 

my ticket with the teeth of—wait,

it was Connor West who said it, 


not Wise?—the wrong guy. 

Fear is a mystery meat, and hard

to pin down, but it’s something 


like this, or how I might just as easily

hear the nasty, whispered thing 

and slip my hand back in my pocket, 


refusing to get involved, 

meandering these endless halls

until I forget both my anger


and my name, responding only 

to the intercom paging the locker number 

they gave me when I enrolled.  


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